


The Sound of Soul

by SaltyStrawberry



Category: Gintama
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2019-01-21 08:38:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12453651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaltyStrawberry/pseuds/SaltyStrawberry
Summary: One night of music, conversation, and bonding of comrades of the newly formed Kiheitai.





	The Sound of Soul

**Author's Note:**

> This is a little scene from a fic I am hoping to write someday.  
> Written for bantaka week.

Yet another night, another inn, another song. Takasugi Shinsuke was already used to such routine. For weeks he had been walking, following a path that led only further ahead while the promise of destination had been fading in his hunger and fatigue. He had moved from town to village, from village to wilderness, pursuing ghosts and memories he couldn’t reach. In his senseless wandering, he found himself picking up two things: a resolution to do a fool’s errand and the fools willing to execute it. He set a path with no goal and found men with no future; a perfect recipe for destruction. It was clear from the beginning that there was no comradeship between him and his newfound band, and Shinsuke was in no want for it. He had their swords, offered for a common cause, and he chose to make himself content with the silence of solitude. It was not long before he found none was to be had.

Shinsuke leaned against the wall, enjoying the melancholic sound of shamisen and the generous view before him. The manslayer Bansai was holding his instrument with gentle care. It was hard to believe those hard hands, which were used to taking lives, had such nimble fingers made for treading the strings with grace and creating tunes with ease. Bansai was sitting with his eyes closed, though there was no doubt he could feel Shinsuke’s gaze on him. He was still damp from his bath. His yukata was tied somewhat lose, revealing the droplets of water sliding down his collarbone, and he let his long hair hang loose and damp about his shoulders. A sight indeed. Shinsuke had no wish to disturb the peace of the gentle tune. Presence of someone who considered him an equal soothed him. He knew it was a fragile illusion, a play-pretend of friendship that could be broken with one simple word. Yet despite his nature, Shinsuke found himself following Bansai’s tune. His presence became a constant in Shinsuke’s daily routine. Over the numerous days of traveling, Shinsuke reluctantly began noticing his traits and manners. The man was silent for the most part, though he did enjoy giving witty remarks at times and testing the boundaries of familiarity. He was quick at reading mannerisms and quicker at adapting to various personalities, accepting everything with a laid-back attitude. With that easy-going step he always took, it seemed as if nothing in the world could ever surprise him. But there were many things that entertained him; rudimentary talks of agriculture and fishing, exaggerated stories of war-heroes and knowledgeable gossips. There was a sense of amusement ever present in those cold eyes when he listened and watched, enjoying the theatre of people around him. However, lately there had been only one person who truly held his attention.

The song ended suddenly, on a sorrowful note. There was movement in the hall of the inn that caught the player’s attention. Shinsuke watched unperturbed as Bansai glanced towards the door, following the rustling of slippers as they swept lightly across the floor. Slow steps became even slower, hesitating and reluctant. They stopped at the door, revealing a rather small silhouette. Both men were aware of the identity of the figure; this was the fourth time this evening that the same feet stopped at the door. The girl would stand there with an obvious wish to enter, yet never with enough courage to do it. Sooner or later her resolve would waver and the rustling would begin again, furthering from the room.

Ever since the Kiheitai had been re-founded, Kijima Matako had kept a carefully calculated distance from Shinsuke. When they walked, she would follow several feet behind him and when they rested, she would sit nearby. For the most part, Shinsuke didn’t bother to notice her. It was Bansai who had pointed out Shinsuke’s “little protégée” following them around. Since then he couldn’t help but recognize her among the band members; her soft steps close behind, her watchful eyes on his back, her father’s gun flickering in her hand. She scarcely spoke to him, and when she did, it was in most official manner, hiding her accent and speaking in a quiet voice. But when they travelled, her boisterous voice stood out among deep clamour. In the newly formed crew, she was loud and brash, with a sharp tongue bossing around men twice her size. It was always quite a scene. She was free from both manners and politeness that usually bound her in presence of her commander. Shinsuke convinced himself he didn’t care. Yet on those rare occasions the girl addressed him, all nervous and fidgety, he would dismiss her quickly, annoyed by her stiffness.

Now yet again she stood in front of the door undecided and unmoving as seconds slowly piled into minutes. The anticipation of the moment made Shinsuke look at the entrance, ruefully abandoning the enjoyable sight of the man before him. A part of him, the selfish, possessive part, willed his gaze to drive away the possible intruder. He was in no mood for stumbling words of a flustered girl.

The door screeched as it opened. Kijima Matako entered the room looking dishevelled with her hair untied and her feet bare, and strode in a flash right over to Bansai; her eyes were gleaming with curiosity and took no notice of her commander, to his surprise.

“Kawakami-san!” she addressed him breathlessly as she took a seat beside him. For just a moment Bansai stared at her stunned by the urgency in her voice. While his expression remained as passive as ever, Shinsuke noticed his eyes widen ever so slightly at the sudden closeness of her face. However, he schooled his expression quickly while Matako was searching and stumbling over words.

“Is it true-… They say you-… I-i mean, I apologise-…”

The words died out as she bit her lip to stop speaking. She pointed a hard look to the floor, searching for a sensible question and a blush spread across her cheeks. Shinsuke snorted; this was the first time the girl had spoken before she thought her words over in his presence. With a sharp inhale, the girl looked around the room in alarm like a cat chased in a corner. Her eyes opened wide when she finally noticed him resting so close to her.

“T-t-t.. Takasugi-sama,” the name came in trembling whispers, and her eyes were jumping frantically from one face to the other like she was about to have short-circuit. Eventually she steeled herself and, surprising Shinsuke again, she fixed her focus on Bansai.

“I apologise for disturbing you and Takasugi-sama at this hour, Kawakami-san.” she said, formality infiltrating her words. Bansai lifted his eyebrow. It was for the first time since they met that the girl addressed him directly.

“I-i-is it true you can hear what people sound like?” she asked. Shinsuke resisted his urge to chuckle. Somehow the girl managed to hear the rumour about the specific talent of his manslayer, and he could guess the intention behind the question. Bansai’s expression remained as blank as ever, but he humoured her.

“Depends who’s asking. Where did you hear it?” 

“Well the guys-… I mean comrades! Our comrades, they were discussing some rumour they heard about Kawakami-san and, well, I was there and was listenin’ since I got nothin’ much else to do. So there they were, discussing whether Kawakami-san can kill by simply playing his shamisen, ‘cause apparently he killed a man in a middle of a square in broad daylight without being seen, but there a report about a beggar playing shamisen on the same square at the time. But one guy-… I mean one man, he didn’t agree, ‘cause he thinks Kawakami-san is a shitty shamisen player with no sense for music.”

Bansai’s eye slightly twitched.

“So then they started fighting about Kawakami-san’s way of killing and music tastes in general. Some say Kawakami-san kills by playing a song that takes their soul away. Others say he uses strings to strangle and cut people from afar. Or he can make himself unseen and kill a man with a knife by a breath’s distance. Or that he simply poisoned the man, or mortally wounded him before the guy even got to the square. Well, that’s nothin’ new, they’ve been discussing Kawakami-san’s killing tactics since the first day, but one of them mentioned Kawakami-san can hear what people sound like, he hears the sound of their souls and then he knows where, when and how he’d kill them. So I went and asked Henpeita-san if he knew, and he said Kawakami-san prefers killin’ with the strings, but he doesn’t know about the hearing, so he told me to ask Kawakami-san himself.”

She lost her breath in the torrent of words, and the split-second silence that surfaced as she inhaled deeply seemed to still the air with anticipation.

Although Bansai was neither scornful nor as cold as his commander, Shinsuke knew Bansai didn’t like to put up with people poking their noses in his business. The supposed talent was just a rumour; one Shinsuke himself didn’t question, convincing himself not to have any interest in it. Shinsuke watched Bansai intently, looking for the slightest line of disdain and scorn on his face, for those murderer’s eyes to flash a silent rage, for those lips to turn sourly downwards. Did the girl touch the nerve? Would this evening be the one to get a glimpse at the soul of the notorious cold-blooded manslayer?

Just as the moment threatened to last too long, it was broken by a gentle plucking of strings.

“Just Bansai’s fine.” he said, unperturbed and at ease.

“What?”

“Don’t bother with formalities with me,” he turned his head back towards her, “Heaven knows I don’t.”

“Yes, Bansai-san.” the girl obeyed, though she chewed on her lip. Bansai chuckled.

“I suppose you want to know what you sound like?”

She reacted to the offer the same way she did to gunshots – head sharply lifted, eyes wide to the source of the sound. Though this time, they were wide with wonder.

“So it’s true?”

“Yes, I daresay”

It worked like magic – Matako squealed in delight, dropping the mask of modesty and formality.  With her face red like sunset, she put her hands down, and closed in to Bansai's face.

“I don't care what I sound like,” she spoke conspiratorially, “Can you tell me what kind of music you hear from Takasugi-sama?”

Bansai didn't bother hiding the surprise this time. With his eyebrows raised he turned to Shinsuke, his mouth anticipating a smirk. Then he squinted his eyes and struck a chord in major, pretending to be deep in thought as he studied Shinsuke from head to toe. He was playing along with the girl's wishes.

Shinsuke scowled. Though he didn’t like the idea of being ridiculously closely observed by a charlatan looking for a way to tease him, Shinsuke felt somewhat thankful that the girl asked the question. The truth of it was he was dying to know the answer. He had heard the rumours long time ago, and after spending several past evenings listening to imaginative improvisations without a false note to be heard, Shinsuke started wondering if there was some truth in those rumours. But he wouldn’t be caught dead in his curiosity. Not even if it costs him thousands of restless nights filled with wrecking brains over some insignificant gossips. No, he had been planning carefully to bring it up, casually, late in night and after a generous number of cups of sake, when they would both feel equally numb and dumb to blame it on the drink.

This girl, however, quickened the process. She renewed his interest. And Bansai was tempting Shinsuke’s inquisitiveness, luring him into a play of tease with that amusement dancing upon his lips, with that playfulness flickering in his eyes. He was waiting for Shinsuke to show his interest, the indication of it sought his sudden stiffness, in his careful, closed-off gaze, in his scowl deepening. Shinsuke leaned his head against the wooden wall, consciously relaxing every muscle in his body, while looking condescendingly at Bansai, daring him to read him. So Bansai did.

“Shinsuke sounds chaotic, I daresay,” he leaned sideways to Matako, but kept his focus on the commander, “There is a cacophony of harmonies grotesquely clashing together. Most of the time it’s an avant-garde expression, rejecting the norms of the society, yet oddly enough, it keeps to traditional manner. Always changing between old and new, always metamorphosing.”

He then turned to the girl almost clandestinely. “But when he’s in action, in rage, all of the philosophical stuff is gone. Instead he is full of arrogant snarls and picks too quick of a tempo of the finest nihilistic punk you could imagine.”

Matako stared at Shinsuke in complete awe. Her lips parted lightly, threatening a jaw-drop until she gulped. As she mumbled “avant-garde punk” to herself, Shinsuke began wondering if she even knew what it meant.

To be honest, he didn’t know much about it either. He had been taught traditional music as a child, so it had become a habit of playing shamisen from time to time, but he never cared much about musical forms and genres, especially not for western music. It bothered him sometimes, when Bansai took one glance at a person and tossed musical terms Shinsuke never heard of. He’d look at a con-man and click his tongue, muttering “deceptive cadence”, or observe the crew and commenting it to Shinsuke with words like “polyrhythm” and “ _So What_ chord” as if it explained everything.  

But this time Shinsuke did understand what Bansai meant. Avant-garde while traditional. An ironic paradox, yet he couldn’t deny it even if it was an insult, a tease, or a praise. He remained gazing at Bansai, meeting his eyes with utmost calmness, while deciding how to respond.

“I don’t snarl.”

Bansai snorted lightly. “Sure you don’t.”

“I bet Takasugi-sama sounds glorious when he snarls,” Matako said in utmost doubtlessness.

“I don’t snarl,” Shinsuke repeated, his patience wearing thin, “I simply roar. Magnificently.”

Only when he finished talking did Shinsuke realize how juvenile he sounds. Making sure his façade is as cold as ever, he wished himself dead in a pit dug in the deepest part of an ocean, where he couldn’t think over the words he just uttered. Since that option wasn’t possible, he searched for a better escape out of this situation before Bansai processed his petty remark.

“What about her?” Shinsuke nodded towards Matako. The effect was instantaneous; overwhelmed with either gratitude or honour of her commander thinking about her, she froze in her place and then remembered to breathe with an audible gasp. She nudged Bansai in haste, flipping her rich blond hair with the other hand.

“Ya heard him, do me now,” she said, fixing her posture like she was preparing for a photo-shooting. Bansai stared at her incredulously, waiting to see if she would realize how badly she phrased the sentence. She didn’t. Matako kept her gaze intently fixed at Bansai, as if she was the one listening to the sound of his soul. Shinsuke bit down his grin as Bansai sighed.

“It’s clear as day,” he said, “You sound like you want to pull off rock music, but you’re more of a country tune so, in the end, it comes out more like a weird mixture of both.”

“So is that close to punk?” she asked hopefully.

“Not really.” Seeing her cast her gaze down in momentary quiet disappointment, Bansai continued “But if you do manage to get the feeling of rock, you’ll be pretty close to punk.”

“Really?”

Bansai nodded, eyeing Shinsuke sideways as the other glowered. Both were wondering if giving the girl false hope was also making them dig her grave. They were wildly aware of the crush she was harbouring, and Shinsuke was more than eager to kill it in its roots. Bansai, on the other hand, seemed to like spoiling the girl. Whenever he made an attempt to discourage her crush, at the sight of her hurting he’d comfort her by a roundabout way of encouraging her obsession. “It’s harmless,” Bansai would tell Shinsuke, “She needs it to gain more self-confidence.” And Shinsuke hated it. He disliked the way she looked up to him, like he was a person of admiration when in truth he was as pitiable as any other man in Kiheitai.

“What about you, Bansai-san?” Matako asked. “What do you sound like?”

Out of all unexpectedness this evening, this was the surprise that brought out a visible reaction from both men. They dropped the calm façade and looked at her dumbfounded by the question. Shinsuke looked at Bansai, whose grip on shamisen loosened until his hand fell on his knee. He stared at Matako, but it was obvious his mind was somewhere else. Finally, he rested his head on his hand, deeply in thought. He was genuinely considering the question.

“Never thought about it much,” he admitted thoughtfully, “Can’t say I ever heard the sound of me at all. Perhaps I just don’t have one.”

“That can happen?” Matako asked with concern in her voice. Bansai just shrugged.

“I guess the listener must be silent if he wants to hear the performer play.”

“But you must have _some_ sound, right? You said it’s the sound of soul, so there must be somethin’. Unless… unless you don’t have a soul?”

Bansai chuckled at the way she whispered the last words. “I’m pretty sure everyone’s got a soul, even undeserving bastards like me. If you insist, I’ll say I sound like _Funeral March for the Obsequies of a Deaf Man_.”

It was nastily played; he knew neither Matako nor Shinsuke knew about whatever absurdity that was, which meant no further questions would be pressed. True enough, Matako seemed content with the explanation. Shinsuke, however, thought the words over and over until he guessed the conclusion. He slid his foot on the floor, subtly asking for attention.

“Bullshit.”

Bansai raised his eyebrow, daring him to explain. He did.

“A deaf man can’t hear. You’re just saying you don’t have any answer.”

“Music doesn’t need a sound to be music.”

“That music isn’t worth listening.”

“Then tell me, what do _you_ think I sound like?” There was an edge to his voice. They locked eyes together, unable to look away until Shinsuke responded or failed to do so. And he _was_ failing. In that moment he couldn’t think. He wasn’t a listening oddity like Bansai, and he didn’t have nearly enough knowledge about music to guess something reasonable. Even if he did have the talent needed for it, he couldn’t do it. Both his eyes and mind were captured by Bansai’s gaze, and his lips sealed with the pressure of challenge. It dawned to Shinsuke that Bansai had to be frustrated by the sudden awareness of not being able to hear one person in the world – himself. He was eager to let the matter rest, seeming unbothered by it, but Shinsuke knew he would spend the upcoming nights wrecking his head about it, trying to hear the inaudible.

“It must be somethin’ relaxing,” Matako considered thoughtfully, oblivious to the tense atmosphere, “You are always so at ease Bansai-san, so you probably sound calm.”

The tension faded away at her suggestion. Bansai broke the gaze, focusing it on the girl instead.

“So like slow jazz?”

“I guess. It’s not like I know it.” she shrugged.

Bansai took a hold of his shamisen again and started plucking strings, improvising and experimenting with harmonies. He was quick to find a catching tune, but seeing his displeasure, there seemed to be still something missing from it. Shinsuke listened, relaxing to the sound of strings, and thought about the man before him. He tried to remember all the times he heard Bansai play. Bansai loved experimenting with styles, changing the tune according to the atmosphere, the acoustics and surroundings. He could brighten the dull days with quick preludes, he could play along the crew singing, creating variation over variation on the main theme. He could calm Shinsuke during too quiet evenings, the music drawing away vile thoughts and loud ire.

“You’re the type who uses whatever’s at hand to compose a song,” he said. Bansai graced him with attention as he continued improvising. “The type who makes a tone-deaf person sing pop. The type of man who sings blues of the happiest person, who makes a sing-along, composed of nothing but clashing swords… The type of man who sings lullabies to the dying ones, when he should be singing a requiem instead.”

 Somewhere along the line Bansai finished playing. He was looking at Shinsuke with interest and a soft smile forming on his lips. Beside him Matako listened attentively, her arms hugging her knees. She nodded lightly when he finished, unsurprisingly agreeing with him. For a moment nobody spoke. They were enjoying the silence, letting the words sink in and waiting for Bansai to either accept or reproach the opinion.

“It’s fitting enough, I daresay,” he said as he struck a chord again, continuing the song with new force in his fingers.

 

**Author's Note:**

> References: "Funeral March for the Obsequies of a Deaf Man” belongs to Alphonse Allais.  
> "always metamorphosing" is a (sadly not very clear) allusion to "Metamorphosen" by Richard Strauss.
> 
> Criticism is welcome!


End file.
